Particular Liars
by BrieCheese16
Summary: When a heist goes wrong, 16-year-old Neal Caffrey is caught red handed with stolen jewels. His temporary partner, Keller, escapes. After a stint in jail, Neil is invited to join Burke in solving crime with the FBI. But will trouble crop up again when Keller wants his stolen artefacts back? (NOT YET FINISHED) Rated T for language. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Discliamer: I own no part of White Collar (obviously, I just kinda wanted to write that, I see it before fics everywhere hehe)**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

The juvenile looked at him, blank faced. His posture was open and his simile friendly. He was a canvas ready to paint whatever picture was required. He was a lie. This particular lie also happened to be hand cuffed to a desk in an FIB questioning room.

Agent Burke leaned back in his seat, resting his hands casually on the sides the of the chair. He let the seconds draw out as the two stared at each other. The teen seemed oblivious to the sweating tactic, posed in a module of comfort and mild boredom.

"How old are you anyway?" Burke asked. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen. He was of a lean build, his hair was short, brown and slightly ruffled at the top. Despite his air of sophistication, his striking blue eyes couldn't appear more young, painfully young. He shouldn't be here, mixed up in all this.

The criminal looked around the room, his gaze skimmed over the door and the two-way mirror, covering one of the four bare walls. He smiled.

"Twenty." The reply rolled of his lips. Quick and easy.

"No."

"What do you mean 'No'?" The teen's answer was dripping in poorly disguised sarcasm. He liked to dance his way around a question. The agent wanted him to sweat? Two could play at this game.

"Try again, Neal. What's your real age?" Peter Burke asked, hoping that his clam, causal voice and use of the Neal's name could coax the correct answer.

Neal looked at him, his posture hunched inwards, appearing smaller. He tilted his head to the side.

"Thirteen."

"Neal, this is a simple question that requires a simple answer. The longer you sit there and lie, the longer we'll have to keep you here."

Neal sighed, straightened in his seat and squared his shoulders. He looked directly at Agent Burke.

"I'm seventeen years old." He said.

Peter nodded and smiled. At least they were getting somewhere. "Okay, good, and where are your parents?"

The teen shrugged. So much for progress.

The thing is, this can't be the right person. The criminal they were tracking was a master at his craft. He was a conman and a forger at the top of his game. Dozens of cracked safes, forged master pieces, and stolen jewellery were left in his wake. Code Name: James Bond. Not a seventeen-year-old boy. Yet all the evidence pointed towards this kid. They caught him mid heist. In tow with one 'Matthew Keller'. Keller had a record, he was in the system, big time. The FBI had been tracking the heist. Four stake outs resulting in one, foot chase. Dozens of agents involved. But the illustrious killer, Keller was a little faster on his feet than his younger, presumed, partner. He left Neal alone, with the jewellery still on his person. Red handed. The two had to have been working together. Keller, though he may some big-stuff criminal, wasn't known for the nuanced work the FBI had attributed to Mr Bond.

Burke looked at Neal again. He acted well, but it was clear in Peter's eyes how much work was going into his persona. Neal sat, tall and confident, yet open. Simultaneously presenting himself to appear in control and innocent. This kid was good. Maybe it wasn't so hard to believe that he could be Bond after all. If they could just get some _damn answers_ he would know.

* * *

"How's the questioning going boss?"

The question came from Diana Barrigan, one of the FIB White Collar divisions top, most efficient agents. In one hand she carried coffees and in the other she held a thin file.

"Not so good." Peter sighed. He reached out his hand, gratefully accepting the coffee. "Any luck on your front?"

"Actually, yes. His full name is Neal Caffrey. He doesn't have any conviction records because he's never been caught before. Though, the government does have a file on him. Apparently he's in the foster system. Or was, before he ran." Diana reported, flicking through the paper she was holding.

"Well he's guilty we know that. We've got enough evidence to prove it. I just didn't think he'd be so young." Burke stopped.

"Does his file say how old he is?" He questioned, curious.

"Yeah, he's only sixteen. Can you believe that?"

 _Sixteen. Not seventeen._

Burke turned and started to walk back towards the interrogation room. He put his hand on the door handle, it opened. The door was unlocked. The desk which Neal had previously occupied was empty. The cuffs lay open and discarded on the table. Hanging limply from the door's key hole was a twisted paper clip.

Well, if there was any doubt that Neal Caffrey was the criminal code named 'Bond' it was gone now. Along with Neal Caffrey.

* * *

"He's gone."

"What do you mean gone? People don't just disapparate into thin air! He's a boy not a wizard, damn it!"

"We got him on the surveillance footage walking out sir-".

"And no one stopped him?" Burke interrupted the younger agent.

"You are trained FBI agents! He is a sixteen-year-old boy _and_ our prime suspect! You let him just walk out of here? So…. stop standing around and start tracking him down!"

The room moved in a rush. Agent Burke sighed resting his forehead on the tips of his fingers and his elbow against his stomach. How did Neal escape from an occupied FBI headquarters? Surely their security is stronger than that! And he's just a kid. How could he let this happen? They had to find him, fast.

Agent Jones strode in through the elevator doors. "Sir, looks like he acquired himself a new hat and jacket, skipped two blocks over and hotwired a car."

"Do we have the number plate?" Asked Burke.

"Yes sir, it's all on the security footage."

"Good, put out a APB. Jones, Diana, with me. Let's go."

* * *

Burke drummed is fingers methodically on his steering wheel. New York traffic sucked. He still couldn't process it. The criminal he had been chasing for a good part of the last few years; a kid. It didn't seem right. But he won't be caught off guard by Neal's age again. Caffrey, despite his youth, was most certainly the man they were looking for. As such, he had proven himself to be cunning, intelligent and a formidable opponent. If they wanted to find him, they'd have to do it fast or he'd truly be gone. Peter doubted they'd get lucky enough to track down another heist of his in the near future. If they wanted Caffrey, they'd have to catch him now.

All the opinions Agent Burke formed about this man he had been tracking, the mysterious criminal living beyond the law, where blown to pieces. He was _sixteen._ How did he get into this business? Where's his family? He was so guarded, every action Neal took in the time he met with him, was a front. They could try him as an adult for this. It probably helped Neal's case that they recovered the jewellery he had stolen when they caught him. But that's to say nothing for his numerus other alleged crimes. Caffrey was broken. He needed help.

 _No._ What was he thinking? This is Bond he was talking about. Does it matter how old he was? He committed crimes and should stand court like everyone else.

"Soooo…" Started Diana, from the passenger set. "James Bond is a kid."

Peter ran his hand over his face. "Don't remind me."

' _Getaway car spotted on 58_ _th_ _street.'_ the radio spluttered. Burke changed gears.

"Let's go." He said veering down a street to the left, turning on the sirens. He had to admit he did like this part of the job. Peter harboured a well-hidden flare for the dramatic.

* * *

Neal ditched the car, on the side of the road, taking out a cell phone he found in the glove box. He had to get out of the city fast. _Shit!_ What was he doing here? Running from the feds? He'd never been caught before. They knew his name, his crimes, everything. They would be looking for him. Especially that Agent Burke. Neal had the feeling that he was not one to give up easy.

 _And Keller._

Damn, Neal had almost forgotten about him. He was questioned by the feds. He'd think he talked. Crap. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He was still out there. What was the fastest way out of the city? Why did he ever get mixed up with those criminals? He should have known Keller didn't play by a code. Apparently honour isn't amongst all thieves. Panic started to rise in his throat as he paced. Calm down. _Think._ There's a way out. There's always a way out.

He could call Mozzie. Mozzie has contacts, he could organise some kind of transport. No, the FIB had security cameras all over that street, they would've seen which car he stole. The FIB could be in contact with the owner. There's a chance, however small, that they could track the cell.

He took out the battery and threw the phone back in the car. Maybe Mozzie was rubbing off on him. Maybe he was being paranoid. Well, that's kind of the same thing but this is the _FBI_ he's dealing with _._ Best to be careful.

He looked back towards the car _. Get what you need. Get out._

There wasn't much there, $18.50 in the glove box, a pair of sun glasses, a key chain and a box of half empty tick tacks. He put on the glasses and pocketed the money, the key chain and tic tacks. He didn't want to be recognised and hey, you never know what might come in handy.

"Freeze!"

 _Shit!_ As if this situation wasn't bad enough. At least he knew it wasn't one of Keller's guys. Those brutes wouldn't have the courtesy to issue a warning before they sent a bullet your way.

"Turn around slowly and put your hands against the car." Neal complied. The instructions, he saw, were being issued by a lean black man, dressed in a suit. He's with the FBI. Neal recognised him from his little stint at their office.

"Is there a problem here?" Neal asked, trying not to let his nerves show. He hated guns and most certainly didn't appreciate having one pointing towards him.

"Neal Caffrey you are under arrest, for forgery and theft." This time the voice came from behind him. He turned to see Agent Burke. "Good work, Jones." Burke said, to the agent with the gun.

"Peter, it's so good to see you! What has it been? 60, 70 minutes? You haven't aged a day!" Neal smirked. Better hide the nerves. Besides the teasing would put them on edge. And on edge people were more likely to make mistakes.

"Cut the crap Caffrey and put your hands on the car." _Another Agent?_ Wow, they had really cracked out the big guns catching him. He turned to see a woman he recognised from the precinct earlier that day as well.

Okay, so he was surrounded. That's okay. There was still a way out. There was always a way out. Neal raised his arms and made a show of turning lowing them against the car. He felt the key chain click in his pocket. He could use it to pick the cuffs when –

"Check his pockets." Said Peter, as he walked closer.

 _So much for that idea._ Neal thought, as one of the agents took out the key chain and stolen money.

Agent Burke looked almost sad, as he helped Neal into the back of his car.

"You have the right remain silent everything you say can and will be…." One of the agents started listing off his rights.

Neal hated to admit it, but this seemed pretty dim. Maybe there are some situations you can't cheat your way out of.

* * *

Neal, was quiet as they drove, focusing his attention on the passing scenery out the window. Neal had managed to put quite some distance between himself and the FBI building in his short getaway attempt. It was going to be a long drive back.

"Sir, the images of the stolen art just came though." Diana said, talking out her phone.

Stolen art. That sounds interesting. Neal leaned forward to see the picture currently displayed on her screen.

"I'll look at it when we get –" Burke started.

"Woah! That good! Really good, it could almost pass for the original." Neal interrupted.

The agents turned towards the recently apprehend kid. "What do you mean almost?"

"Well, obviously it's a forgery. The lightings a little off, along with the aging. Courbet's a 19th artist. None of his works are that well preserved." Neal stated.

Burke and Diana turned to each other eye-brows raised. They'll look to verify this when they got back to the precinct. If Neal proved right it'd be extremely helpful to their case.

Looks like there could be more than one way out after all.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! XD I'd LOVE to hear what you think, so write a review (if ya want). This is my first fan-fiction, so if you have any advice or suggestions it would be much appreciated :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! What an awesome response. I'm so glad you all enjoyed my story. It might be a little slow in coming as I have a lot of assessments at the moment. But here it is. Thank you everyone for you reviews 3**

 **JimChou: thanks! I'm glad you liked it, I went through and fixed the name mistake. I didn't really think about that, so thanks for pointing it out.**

 **Barb: Thanks, I'm going to try too, here's the next one now.**

 **sBlack78: Ahhh thank you**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

" _This is a tricky case and we're going to need some help. He could be very useful. You've read his rap sheet. You've seen what he can do. He has talent. Maybe a second chance is just thing he needs. Hell, maybe even a first one I'm not sure anyone even gave him that."_

" _You sure you know what you're getting into Burke?"_

" _No. But if you stick him in prison he's just going to break out again. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was best for the precinct."_

" _Okay, you have my permission. But I'm keeping him on a very tight rope."_

" _You and me both, sir."_

* * *

 _Okay so juvie sucks_ Neal thought as he walked around his cell. He could've run. He had a few promising opportunities. But he was safe here. Keller couldn't get to him. Trapped, and caged, yes, but safe. Here's a thing about prisons; there pretty secure. There made to be hard to break out of... or into. Anyway, Keller wouldn't waste time trying to reach him in here. The man may hold a grudge but he wasn't stupid. Neal wasn't an immediate threat and Keller wasn't on a suicide mission. No one in their right mind would break _into_ jail. Especially when they were a wanted felon. Then again, Neal was never sure what state of mind Keller was in, sane or otherwise. No, don't think like that. Wait out the storm. Keller will forget about this whole fudge up soon enough. Then Neal would be free to crack any crazy escape plan he pleased.

That all sounded good in theory, but it meant staying _here._ Neal happened to have taste for luxury, and this was the opposite. The people here weren't exactly friendly. Luckily Neal had a lot of practice dealing with unruly neighbours. At least they let him draw. Which is what he had spent most of his time doing… for the past two weeks. He may not have wanted to admit it, but Neal was scared. And alone. Two things you'd think he'd be used to by now.

The door cracked open revealing a security guard, "Neal Caffrey?".

Well this was surprising. There hadn't been a stray from schedule the whole time he's spent here.

"Yes?" Neal answered, curiously.

"You have a visitor." Huh, that's odd. Maybe Mozzie got a heads up on his situation and came to check in. Though it would be unlike him to enter freely into any kind of government run facility, let alone a prison. Even one for kids. Aww, Neal didn't know he cared so much.

Neal followed the guard through a series of hallways. Left, two rights, then left again. The guard lead him to a door, which he then held open. Neal walked inside. It was a square room, in the centre of which was a table and long bench seats on either side. Sitting on the seat facing him, was no other than the Agent who arrested him; Peter Burke.

Neal walked in carefully, not sure what to expect. Burke smiled when he saw him.

"Hey Neal, how are you?" He asked. Weird. The last time Neal saw Burke, he was with two other agents and a gun. What's with the sudden Mr Nice Man?

"Just perky." Neal replied as he manufactured a smile. A small one, with just the right amount of pleasantness, as if he were entertaining a party. Act like you were expecting this. Don't let any surprise show. Neal took the seat across from Burke, studying him closely. What's his play?

"How do you like it here?" Peter asked. What? Did he come here to gloat? Neal wouldn't have pinned him down as the type.

"Oh it's nice enough." Neal drawled, as he leaned back causally in his chair. "The foods not quite to my standard but the beds are surprisingly comfortable." Neal smiled, his classic Caffrey, trust winning smile.

"I have a proposition for you." Agent Burke started.

"Thank you Peter, I'm flattered but I don't swing for the other team, if you catch my drift." Caffrey smirked.

Burke brushed away his frustration. "A work proposition."

Neal straighten, interested. Not here to gloat then. Probably to trade for information. Neal wouldn't give away his friends and he didn't want any more trouble with Keller. But he lied when he said the beds were comfortable. If he was going to be in here for the long haul it would be nice to get some stuff.

"You may know," Peter continued, "the FBI occasionally work with criminals of a certain skill set, to help them solve crimes. We call them consultants. I hear you've been sentenced with four years of sub-standard food and 'comfy' beds. I happen to have a particularly tricky art forgery case on my hands. You were right, by the way, about the paintings. They were a fake. We could use someone like you. This is a onetime offer and you'll be under extremely close scrutiny. You could work with us for a trail period, see how it goes? You'll be under constant surveillance of course, an unbreakable tracker attached to your ankle." Peter reach down the seat beside him and pulled out a paper file and placed it on the table.

Neal's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "What's in it for you?"

"Well, you would be my consultant. Work for the FBI." Burke explained. "Your under aged so we'll have to find you a family to live with." He said, almost to himself. "You'll help me solve cases."

Is that it? That can't be it. It's too good to be true.

"Seriously?" Neal asked. "I'd get to solve cases with you? Work with the FIB? _Instead_ of going to jail?"

"Yes." Peter answered.

Neal's puppy dog simile widened to cover the majority of his face. "Yes, defiantly yes!"

He seemed to catch himself. "I mean, sure, I'll take that offer."

Peter grinned and slid the legal papers across the table.

Working with the FIB. That'd be an adventure. He'd always been on a certain side of the law. It would be very interesting to see how the other functioned. He'd seen movies of course; everyone loves a good crime show. But he didn't think it'd be like that. Neal had lived to long to expect life to pan out like a movie. He'd be out of jail, free to explore the world. Or part of it. Did Peter say he'd be living with a family? His smile dropped. Just a little. It'd be too soon to go back out there. If you make a deal with Keller, you follow it though. He'd find him. It'd be dangerous for whatever 'family' he was assigned too. And for him. Besides, working with the FIB isn't exactly lying low.

"What wrong?" Burke asked.

"Where would I be living?" Neal asked.

"Well," Burke replied, "We don't have anyone lined up, so you'll stay with El and I until we can find other arrangements."

Neal's confidence returned. He'd be safe with Agent Burke. Keller is far too smart to get directly mixed up with a FBI Agent. His excitement returned. No long haul wait. No farfetched escape plan. Neal couldn't believe this was happening.

* * *

"I expected you to deliver, Keller. When I employed your services I was assured secrecy, subtlety not the item of interest in the hand of the FIB!" the man entering the room. His voice was as quick as his steps. He stood tall, his shoulders held by his sense of self-importance.

The ornate room was contrasted by a scraggy couch and TV set probed up dead in the centre of the shiny floor. The man was looking directly at Keller, who lounged on the couch, his feet propped up by a footstall. Keller's attention wandered from his phone to the visitor. The room décor was an odd mix of expensive styling and neglected furniture.

"Chill, sit down have a drink. I'll get you another diamond necklace, there's more fish in the sea." The words dribbled from his lips. He rose his scotch drink to his mouth.

"Did you ever consider that _just maybe_ I had a plan? That _maybe_ I need that particular necklace for a reason? No!" The well-dressed man continued in his fire of fury. Keller looked on amused.

The man continued "I already gave you my money in good trust! I expect you to follow through with your promises!"

"Why?"

The customer stopped, startled by Keller's question. Keller took the opportunity, letting his words out in a sing song fashion.

"Why should I continue to help you?" He played with the words, changing the tone on each one as a child would.

"Why should…?" The man spluttered. "I'm paying you! You're the one who screwed up the deal. This is all your fault!" Keller chuckled, his attention had returned to the phone is his hand.

"Will you take this seriously and look at me!" The man shouted is growing frustration.

"What? It's a video of a cat chasing a red dot on a wall." He laughed again, "Ha, never gets old."

The visitor stepped forward in anger. His footsteps fell heavy on the polished ground.

"You think this is a joke?" His voice rippled with ire.

Keller waved his hand nonchalantly. "Oh this _is_ a joke."

He turned towards his client.

"This is life buddy! What else do you think life would be other than a Big. Fat. Joke?" Keller articulated, his attention now for the first time focused on his flustered client.

The man shifted uncomfortably, realising that the power in this situation may not lie with him. 'The customer is always right' doesn't seem to be a policy that applies when dealing with thieves and assassins. Keller stood, abandoning his phone on the couch and began to walk towards the man.

"Your jewellery is of little importance to me." Keller drawled, as he flicked open his jacket revealing a gun strapped around his waist and a knife tucked up his sleeve.

"In fact, it holds about the same amount of importance to me as your life. But you possess a perverted notion that they are of some value, so I suggest that you choose now, which one you value most." Keller drew out the end of the last word into a small hiss. He was standing less than a meter away from the customer. He flicked his knife into his hand.

The man's eyes were fixated on the knife. He sifted, his pervious confidence scattered across the spacious room. He gulped.

"I, uh…"

"You what?" Keller's face melted in a smirk, carelessly waving his knife in his hand, weaving it through his fingers.

The man was beginning to sweat. His face contorted into fear.

"Listen," he said, failing to keep his voice even. "It wasn't that, uh, important anyway, you could -".

He was interrupted as a chuckle came from Keller's lips which soon grew into full blown laughter. The man began to laugh along uncertainly, wary of the man he had unwittingly hired. He's insane. He must be.

"You should have seen your face!" Keller managed between gasps. "So." Wheeze. "Fucking." Huff. "Terrified."

Keller sighed and straightened. "I don't kill clients. You know, bad for business and all that. Though lucky for you I do keep my deals. I just received information that led me to believe I may be able to retrieve this neckless of yours. But with your bickering and whining I'm not sure I want too."

The man sighed, his eyes on the still waving knife.

"What's the new price?" He asked.

* * *

Neal Caffrey was not nervous. _He wasn't._ He was completely fine. Living with a family. Working with the FBI. Being normal. Well normal-ish. Yup. The picture of tranquillity. Caffrey sat in the front seat of the FBI car next to Agent Burke. Last time he was here he was in the back, in handcuffs. He liked this time better.

The paper work involved in this process was massive. Of course, Neal read the entirety of the 30-page contact before signing it. He needed to know what he was getting into. But that was just the beginning. Getting approved to be let into Burke's custody took weeks of meetings, and a ridiculously uncomfortable tracking device. But finally he was let out the bared gates. Back to the real world. Just not the one he was accustomed too. Neal eyed Agent Burke anxiously.

"Since you'll be staying with us for the first few weeks, I set up a bed and everything you might need in the guest room." Peter looked back at Caffrey

"Well, El did. Not me. She's much better with those things you know. You'll like her."

Neal nodded. They both looked out the window. After a few moments Neal looked back towards Peter.

"So do you have any kids?" he asked.

"What?" Burke replied, confused.

Neal backpedalled "I mean, if I'm going to be staying with you, temporarily, I would like to know if you have any other kids living in the house?"

"Oh, uh. No we don't. Just the two of us." Peter answered.

It wasn't for lack of trying. Peter and El had wanted children for years, but sadly it just wasn't meant to be. They had considered adoption for a while but with both of them working so often it just didn't seem fair.

They continued to drive silently for some time.

Burke tapped his fingers on the wheel thoughtfully, "So since you're living with me and working with me I'm going to lay down some rules." Peter turned towards Neal, his face serious.

Neal raised his eyebrow, waiting.

"No stealing anything. No forging anything. Nothing that's even remotely considered a crime. You have a two-mile radius from our house unless you're with me, El or another FBI agent. Your work with us is compulsory, unless you want to return to prison so I suggest you do as I say. If you want to go anywhere, do anything, you pass it through me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Neal smiled in a way that made Peter question whether he was serious or mocking. Burke decided to let it slide.

Neal expected these rules, they wouldn't just set a known thief and criminal free into the world. But he had been living alone for almost three years now. He'd looked after himself, looked out for himself, watched his own back and answered only to himself. This would be an adjustment.

Neal's attention returned to the passing landscape. They had entered a suburban area, the houses stood tall and accommodating, each one differentiated by colour and decoration. The grounds before them were causally kept, not overgrown but not meticulous either. Soccer mums wouldn't be receiving their garden of the year award here. Bikes where left on lawns as children had run inside to receive lunch. It couldn't be more different from where Caffrey grew up. He liked it.

Burke pulled the car up in front of a house, his house.

"Here we are." He said.

Neal hated this bit. This was all too familiar. He had done with many times before pulling up with his social security officer in front of various foster homes. It had never gone well.

"Everything okay?" Peter asked, worry creeping into his voice.

Neal quickly conjured up a smile. "Yeah, of course." He said cheerfully as he got out of the car and followed Peter towards his house.

Its only for two weeks. Why would anyone want a criminal for any longer? Or at all for that matter. He walked through the door. _Your only here because they couldn't find another place for you to stay_ , Neal reminded himself. _Don't get too attached._

"Neal!" a women came through into the lounge. "It's so good to finally meet you, the boy who I have been vying with for my husband's attention for the last few years." She tossed a chastising look towards Peter.

Neal grinned "Well, it's wonderful to meet you too."

His room was nice enough, it was small with a long window looking out towards the backyard of the house. Satchmo, the golden Labrador Retriever played on the mown grass. He nudged and chased a ball around the yard. Neal's room contained a bed, shelves with old books, a couple pairs of clothes and a drawing pad, pencils and paints along with some case files to read. The Burke's definitely made an effort to make him feel at home. El couldn't have been kinder, and Peter, despite his serious nature was genuinely welcoming. It made him uncomfortable. He needed to figure these people out. Fast.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading 3 Reviews are life, so tell me what you thought! What would you like to see happen? I'm swamped with work this weekend, so you may not see the next chapter for a while (sorry).**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

* * *

 **Hey, Readers! Wow, I kinda forgot about this one. Sorry about such a long wait, but unfortunately I can't promise I won't repeat it. Such is life. Anyway, thanks so much if you're still reading this :) I hope you like it.**

* * *

 _6 Weeks Earlier:_

* * *

" _Stop pacing, I can't hear it!" whispered Caffrey. He leant closer to the safe, the stethoscope pressed against it. Keller raised an eyebrow at the demand but his methodical tapping of footsteps ceased. Neal refocused. Click. Click. Click. Clunk. Perfect! One more to go._

 _Keller checked his watch, glancing away from his look-out station at the door. "We have one-minute left. You get that safe open and you open it now, or things are going to get messy." The tone of his voice wasn't playful, mid-heist Keller was all business._

" _Shhhh…" hushed Neal, absently. His attention directed towards the small box embedded in the ornate wall before him._

 _Safe cracking is art. It can't be rushed, it takes a steady hand and an open ear. Caffrey held a certain affinity towards those attributes. One may say he was a natural, perhaps even a genius, if such words were to be applied to criminals. But talent is nothing without practice. Neal had cracked this safe a hundred times before. Well, not this one exactly. Mozzie had 'found' a similar safe which he kindly donated to Neal, for his_ varied _education. It had a few miles on its gage. It was knocked, its system unreliable, Neal preferred to think it added character. In the world of security, safes were out dated at the speed of iPhones. But, like iPhones, the product remained relativity unchanged._

 _"Uncrackable" the advertisement boasted. Ha! They might as well dare every aspiring, crime documentary watching, criminal to kiss their crush on the playground. If you do it, you're the iceberg that sunk the titanic. Expect you know, without the death._

 _Click. Click. Clunk._

 _Satisfaction rushed to Caffey's fingers as the safe door swung open. One unsinkable ship down, square that away. A smile found its way to the end of his lips. It contained a red, ruby neckless, the chain pure gold. It was beautiful. Old too. Worth a lot. But with all this trouble to get it, it was probably for sentential value. The Family Jewels and all that. Caffrey didn't care he wasn't here for the spoils; he was here for the sport. The rush of the game, of solving the unsolvable… and because getting on the wrong side of Mathew Keller was never a good plan._

" _Grab it. Let's go." Nodded Keller as he drew his gun._

" _Woah! I thought we agreed I would only do this if there were no guns." Neal panicked_

" _Relax, girly, bullets not for you." Keller quibbled. His face contorted into mock anguish._

 _Neal remained steadfast in position._

 _"Oh, Bo Hoo. You've done it now. And I would have been able to stick to that deal if you hadn't taken so long, but now the guard will be making his rounds."_

" _Long? I cracked it in 182 seconds!" Neal held up his watch as prof._

" _Yeah, I'm so impressed." Keller dead panned. "Just grab the damn thing and follow me."_

 _Sirens started._

" _You little rat! What did you do?" Keller bellowed, levelling his gun at Neal's face._

" _Nothing! I swear! This wasn't me," Neal barked back._

 _The roaring rotating noise attempted to drown their voices. Then they heard the footsteps._

 _They had an escape plan perfectly planed, of course. Keller would loop the stairwell's camera as they made their way to the ground floor, where they would assume the identities of Hotel staff. Two lefts, three rights, and one left later they would be driving home from their 'first shift at work' with a little more pay than necessarily agreed upon. But plans change._

 _New plan: Run._

 _Keller was far ahead, Neal panting behind. Caffrey kept in good shape, but long staircases and multiple disorientating corridors took its toll. He ran. His hand sliding along the rail beside him. Oh crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap. There were people coming up the staircase. He turned to a door to side. Is this floor 15 or 14? Damn. Elevators off line. Damn. Keep going. The con wouldn't fool anyone now, but maybe he could disappear among the commotion. Neal turned down another corridor then back to the staircase. If he just -._

" _FREEZE, FBI!"_

* * *

The FBI White Collar station wasn't quite as he imagined it. It was large, open. The stretching ceilings and glass walls seemed to flex, graciously gifting space to breathe. Space to think.

Neal got a few odd glances from the suits between there clicking keyboard fingers, shuffling paper hands and lingering coffee break feet. They hid their interest well, but there are indications the body performs without the approval of the mind. A quiet layer of attention drifted around Neal's shoes. This is the kid. The criminal. The forger. The thief. The one Burke rescued.

 _Yeah-_ freakin _'-right_.

They didn't see him as an equal, they saw him a mistake, as wrong paths taken, as a child. More than anything, Neal hated that. The condescending nature; that perceptions got to go. Neal straightened his shoulders, raised his chin and selected a confident, slightly cocky simile. It's show time.

He walked in. Following Burke though the room to a series of raised large offices at the end. Burke had an office up here, he noted glancing at the plaque, and so did the apparent head of the operation. Obviously, this is where the people of merit worked. Caffrey flashed a smirk back towards the trundling office workers. How many of them got to come straight up here on their first day? He entered the office. Inside was a large elongated table and two other agents, the 'big guns', the ones who were with Burke when Neal was arrested.

He entered the office. Inside was a large elongated table and two other agents, the 'big guns', the ones who were with Burke when Neal was arrested.

"Neal, this Diana and Jones, They're working this case with me."

"Hello, Diana, Jones," Neal said, making sure to keep his voice low and steady. If was to be working with these individuals be wanted to gain some form of respect. He nodded to each as he said their names, although he already memorised their faces and names from there last interaction. "So nice to officially be introduced instead of man handled into

"So nice to officially be introduced instead of man handled into car." It probably wasn't the best idea to remind them of his criminal activity and there already shaky past interactions but – hey, it was too fun to resist.

The agents took a moment to look up from the papers spread out on the desk, before returning to the task at hand. "Caffrey."

Ouch. Cold. Looks like Mr Respected Burke didn't make a popular choice in bringing Neal in. Then again, maybe they just didn't like criminals, no matter how charming. It would make sense, given their profession.

"Okay, so what's the case? I keep hearing those words "the case", honestly, it sounds like you're all into delivering illegal drugs or something."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Angelo White had his home robbed about half a month ago. The items of value that were paintings stolen where his private collection, including the Courbet you recognised."

Neal nodded. "The fake."

"Exactly," Dinna interjected. "It seems to be a trend. We've had our team take a closer look at all the other paintings and they appear to be forgeries too."

"If they're stolen how did you analyse them?" Caffrey questioned.

"Mr White had scanned electronic copies of the art work and put up on his art blog," Jones answered. "At this point, we, don't know for sure. It does seem unlikely that _all_ the paintings stolen were forgeries, and with some paintings, it's hard to tell for sure. Our experts noticed discrepancies but are unwilling to make a definitive call without seeing the paintings in person."

Caffrey walked to the other side of the table and looked at each of the large print outs of the scanned paintings. Something wasn't right. Something more than a pixel muck up or an incorrect translation of information from reality to the screen.

"These are forgeries. I'm willing to stake my freedom on it." Caffrey said. If they weren't the Feds wouldn't need him anyhow. Better gamble here than wait in prison.

"Good," smiled Burke. "Cus you're freedoms what's on the line here."

Burke directed Caffrey to the behemoth of files stacked in the corner of the room. "Look through these, look at the information. See if anything sticks out to you."

Neil looked disgustingly towards the large pile. He opened his mouth as if to say something.

"Unless you have something else you'd rather be doing," Peter prompted.

Neil steped back resgined. Lay low rememeber.

"Didn't think so."

* * *

Caffey's head was spinning after working though boxes and boxes of files. Was this institution in the stone age? The other agents slowly left the room on account of other important issues, leaving Neal to tend to the growing mound of files related to the case. At least, it appeared to be growing. After three hours of hard slog Neal had more questions than answers; Why would anyone steal a bunch of fake paintings? How does Mr. White have so many forgeries in the first place and, most importantly; was the Bureau aware that there's such a thing as a computer for goodness sake?!

Sighing, Neal turned his attention to window. People scurried about their lives, dashing in and out of shops, coffees in hand. A short man checked his reflection in the window. He remained there for a long time, pacing up and down. Neal's eyes narrowed, he walked to the window to get a closer look. Stopping for a second, the man turned – Mozzie!

Neal walked out of the office towards the coffee machine all of the time keeping his eyes focused on the elevators. The right one was concealed from view. It could be risky. Neal glanced at the mound of boxes and papers spread over the table. What's life without a little risk?

Walking out of the room and to the raised platform Neal kept his eyes on the elevators. He was only halfway done the stairs that it began to materialise from behind the wall. As Neil strolled through the room, he noted the elevator entrance was also concealed from the right side of the room. This would be tricky and would require some luck. Neal hated leaving things to luck. Open plan offices suck!

He walked like he owned the place, from the stairs, down the hall and turned to the –

"Where do you think you're going,"

Neal glared up at Agent Burke "To the bathroom of course."

Peter meet Neal's defiant glare with his own of suspicion. He gave way.

"You have five minutes."

Neal rolled his eyes and kept walking. He rounded the corner into the bathroom, right next to the elevator. Five minutes. Not much time. Walking out he entered straight into the lift, knowing full well that he was hiding from half the office. Man, they should have designed this place better.

If you look like you know where you're going, no one will stop you. Neal turned to the man who shared the elevator with him. The man glanced over.

"Long day?" Neal asked with a charming smile and innocent eyes.

"It's been alright," he smiled. Neal nodded. The elevator doors opened and Caffrey just kept walking.

Mozzie was waiting across the street. He bumped and jumped, flustered.

"Neal, thank goodness you're alright! The word is you are with the FBI? I didn't know if you could escape!"

"Good to see you too Mozzie," Neal smiled. A real genuine smile. It'd be a while since he'd his friend.

* * *

 **Reviews are life so please leave one if you feel so inclined :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

"So, you're telling me. That you went _freely_ to the FEDS?" The small but wildly gesticulate man seemed to take up more space than his mass allowed. A personality that defied physics itself.

The youth, who lounged with his shoulder rested against the building, smiled. "Mozzie, it was either this or prison, and you know that they would just have locked me up until the end of time. And then some."

"Oh, come on Neal. You can't use that excuse with me. I know you could break out of any prison they put you in." Mozzie turned away, glancing over his shoulders. Neal's friend always seemed jumpy and unsettled. Completely the opposite of Neal's outward disposition. Perhaps that's why Neal liked him so much.

"You're working with the other side!"

"There not actually that bad Mozzie."

"You're defending them?" Mozzie threw his hands up in the air, turning away in exaggerated disgust. "I can't even look at you right now. Wait, what's that on your ankle?"

Neal looked down, casually unconcerned. "Oh, this? It's a tracking device."

Causally unconcerned – Neal's speciality expression. He could emulate it even in the toughest of times. And he had. It gained him repute in the criminal industry. A myth rather than a man… or boy.

"They've turned you into nothing more than a dog! You're more than this. _We're_ more than this. We don't live by their rules."

"Maybe you don't Mozzie, but I've got bigger things on my mind right now."

That seemed to subdue that the overly eccentric man. He paused.

"Oh? Oh." Understanding began to dawn on his face. "I warned you not to work with that man."

Neal reached into his pocket and pulled out a brick phone. "Yes, well you know me Mozzie. When have I ever listened to your warning?"

"Well, you should! I hope you're not using that cell phone. The government keep track of your every move with –."

"What part of _Tracking Device_ did you not comprehend?" Neal chuckled. "The government doesn't need big brother to keep track of me. Take this with you, I've memorised the number. If it rings you'll know it's me."

Mozzie looked apprehensively towards the small device and then glanced towards the looming glass building before his eyes settled firmly back on Neal again. He reached out and took it.

"If I die from unknown and mysterious circumstances in the next month I'm blaming you." Mozzie chastised.

Neal's face cracked into a grin. "I'll make sure to include that in your obituary. Now, Keller – I need to know what happened to him after I was caught."

"I don't know much." Mozzie replied. "he got out of the building somehow, went underground. I'll do some sniffing around, see what putrid smell he's left on the streets."

"Good. I'll need to check. See if you can find out what the word on the street is about me as well." Neal checked his watch. "I've got to get back. Peter will be getting suspicious. 12 tonight. I'll call."

Neal turned to walk down away, but Mozzie's arm caught him.

"Just…" Mozzie began. He locked eyes with the younger Neal.

"Just be careful," Mozzie said.

"Mozzie. When am I not?" Neal reassured, before running across the busy street, dodging between cars, towards the FBI building.

* * *

Mozzie glanced over his shoulder. He wasn't sure what he was looking for – something? Someone? Yet, in all outward appearances, the street was decidedly normal. Mozzie felt a shiver. Most would dismiss such a feeling as cold, but Mozzie knew when to trust his instincts.

To many Mozzie seems paranoid, suspicious, distrustful. Mozzie preferred to think himself prepared. Proper preparation was the key to success in any high crime heist. Creepiness isn't just an arbitrary feeling. It's always catalysed by something. And something is creepy when it is so close to reality, so close to how we expect to see the world, yet not. It's unsettling, confusing. So, what was it? What wasn't right about this situation?

Mozzie glance behind, again. His mind tried to reach for it but it slipped through his fingers like wet soap. People were walking, streamlining around each other as they went about their day, falling in beat with the city. The brick buildings cast shade over the path, coating pedestrians in a layer cold. Dressed in scarves and large coats, everyone moved, unwilling in linger in the chilling air. Everyone… except for one girl. She stood, peering into a store window. A store which, Mozzie noted, was closed. Mozzie looked closer, not closed – disused.

Mozzie quickly turned back keep walking. He turned down one street, slightly picking up his pace. He glanced over his shoulder. There was the girl, again. She had fallen in tune with everyone else, moving as a part of the crowd. She was approximately 1.6, dark hair, pale skin. The girl was too far for Mozzie to make out any defining features, but she moved with a sense of ease – almost grace. She looked familiar if only he could place it. Her eyes locked with his. He knew those eyes. That firm green gaze.

There was an alley to Mozzie's left. He turned down it. Looking behind himself all the time. The girl, if she was following him she would -.

"Mozzie! My man." He heard from behind him.

Swilling quickly, Mozzie found himself to face with Matthew Keller.

Those green eyes.

"Mr Keller!" Mozzie replied with a panicked smile.

Hearing footsteps Mozzie turned back to the alleyway entrance. The girl stood at the entrance.

"I see you've met my daughter." Keller smiled. He was always smiling. That same cheerful smile.

"Well, I wouldn't say met…" Mozzie trailed off.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Mozzie was the behind the scenes man. He was the planner. He was the mind. The getaway car, the genius behind the genius. He was not someone who was followed, cornered in alleys by teenage girls and their dangerous crime affiliated fathers.

"To what do I owe the honour?" Mozzie asked. He was tempted to accompany the words with a bow and tip of an imaginary top hat, but the severity of the situation held him back.

"I believe you are acquainted with Mr Caffrey," Keller stated. Right to the point.

Keller let his eyes wander, taking in his surroundings with casual disinterest.

It wasn't a question, but Mozzie answered anyway. "I have talked to him over the years, yes."

"And have you talked to him recently?" Keller's eyes snapped to Mozzies.

Mozzie paused. He wouldn't sell Neal out. Never. But he had to be smart about this. If Keller knew the truth, he would have no real reason to come after Caffrey. Neal didn't betray Keller. He didn't botch the plan. But Neal _did_ get caught.

Information on Keller. Now would be a good time to get it.

"Depends." Mozzie answered carefully.

Keller sat down, relaxing against a box and a building wall.

"Don't worry. I don't want to hurt your boy." He assured. "I simply want to provide a way for him to make amends."

Keller gestured for Mozzie to sit down. "I have a message for him."

"I'm listening."

* * *

Peter Burke leant back in his chair, rested his feet on his desk and sighed. Peter absently tapped his pen against the unmarked papers before him. He glanced outside his windowed office to see Neal working in the room beside him.

The teenager shuffled through paper spewed across the desk, his legs anxiously bumping the desk, eyes intent. Peter sighed. He understood his co-worker's reservations. He really did. Bringing Caffrey in wasn't a unanimously approved move. Peter still held many of his own reservations. The kid lied, possibly compulsively. He had a complete disregard for the law and seemed intent on manipulating everyone around him.

But there was no way around it – Neal Caffrey was a genius.

If Peter could just _get_ to him, Neal would have a life of great achievements ahead of him. The alternative life he's heading down would not end so well, for whatever unfortunate art owner happened upon his path, and for Neal.

At least that's what he told himself. But there was another inescapable fact – Neal Caffrey was just a kid.

Peter glanced back towards the stack of papers on his desk. It was late. They could wait until tomorrow.

He walked out his office towards the conference room Neal was working in.

He opened the door. "You need a break."

Neal pushed back in his chair, swivelling to face Peter.

"Oh, I think I'm fine here." Neal's body relaxed, mouth widening the grin that so often took residence on his face.

"Well, I need a break. Come on." Peter turned to walk out the door.

Reaching for his coat Neal chased after him.

"Where are we going?" Neal asked as he caught up to Peter striding towards the elevator.

"For ice cream," Peter stated.

Neal's left eyebrow shot upwards, "Ice cream?"

"Yup." Said Peter, ignoring Neal's prolonged incredulous expression.

Neal shook his head and the smile came back.

"Okay." He said. "Ice Cream break it is."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! If you did please leave me a review - honestly they are the best motivation to write. Anyway, I hope you'll are having a beautiful day :) Bye**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Neal and Burke wandered down the streets of New York. Peter leading the way and Neal keeping pace. A group of private school kids walked down the street in uniforms, laughing as they talked. A father pushed a pram as he pressed a phone to his ear talking emphatically. Another student rushed by eyes fixated on his phone so much so that he bumped straight into Neal. He moved on without so much as an apology.

Neal and Peter walked, falling into polite conversation. Peter talked about interesting cases he's worked on in the past and baseball games he's seen. Neal smiled, easily interjecting banter, maintaining flow and distance. As the pair reached the ice cream shop Peter noted, surprisingly, that he enjoyed talking with Neal. The kid was insightful, and he had a hell of a brain.

The unlikely pair slowed as they reached a small but well-kept ice-cream shop. A brightly coloured door welcomed them inside. Moments later the two sat in a table, overloaded ice-creams in hand.

"Triple chocolate? Really?" asked Neal as he looked at the precariously stacked ice cream that was melting its way off Peter's cone.

"What's wrong with triple chocolate? This is a classic flavour." Peter stated, incredulous.

"Just one chocolate flavour wasn't enough? They just had to triple it up?" Neal smirked.

"Oh, you can talk about over-the-top ice-creams Mr Maple and Walnut Gelato."

"Hey! You talk about classics? This is a classic. Maple and Walnut flavours complement each other perfectly." Neal deadpanned.

Peter chuckled and a smile cracked over Neal's face.

"My dad used to take me here," Peter said.

Neal paused, wary of the non-sequitur. "Really?" he asked.

"He would pick me Sundays right after baseball. If we won we'd celebrate and if we lost we'd commiserate. One of the places we'd go to was this shop."

Peter smiled at the memory.

"I must have tried every flavour in here, and let me tell you. Nothing. _Nothing._ Beat's the triple chocolate ice-cream."

Neal inclined his head, "Okay, you win. I'll let you enjoy your excessive, nostalgic ice-cream in peace."

Their table was situated in the corner of the restaurant. Neal relaxed with his back to the wall and his feet rested on a chair beside him. From this vantage point, Neal had a full view of everyone in the shop and easy access to both the exits. Peter considered that the kids outwardly relaxed demeanour might not be all that represented of what was going on in his head.

"What about Maple Walnut then?" Peter questioned.

Neal thought about it, "It's classy."

"Is that what matters? How 'classy' an ice-cream is."

"Perception matters Peter."

Perception does matter. If you could change what people believe, then you might as well be altering reality. After all, how can we know reality to be anything other than what we perceive it to be? Everyone lies. We lie to ourselves when we think we'll go to bed after the next chapter. We lie to each other when we say "I'm fine, thank you" and "We'll catch up sometime". We lie when we tell ourselves that working with FBI is a ploy for protection and that we don't care whether the Burkes genuinely care about us. Okay, maybe that last one was just Neal. But these lies, they construct a world that is so much easier to deal with than reality. Wilful deception, Neal thought, is nothing more than being aware of the lies everyone spins that make this world bearable and going along with it anyway.

"Do you want anything else, before I pay the bill?" Peter asked, getting up.

"No, I got mine," Neal replied.

Peter stopped. "What do you mean 'you've got it'?"

Neal pulled out a wallet and held out some money.

"I mean; I've got it." he repeated.

Peter sat back down and looked directly at Neal. "Where did you get this?" he asked.

Neal scoffed, "What? Am I not allowed to have money now?"

"Neal I saw what you had in juvie with you, and you haven't been outside a 20-meter radius from me since. So, I'm going to ask you again; where did you get this?"

"You looked into my personal belongings?" Neal gawked.

"I know what you doing Neal! Don't dance your way around my question. Where did you get the wallet Neal?"

Neal stared down Peter. "I found it." He stated.

"Uh huh," Peter replied, obviously not convinced. "And where did you find it?"

"In that asshole's pocket who bumped into me earlier."

"Damn it, Neal!" Peter ran his hand over his face. He turned to the side, hands on hips. Then took a deep breath before facing Neal again.

Peter held out his hand, "Give it here."

Neal paused, mouth open as if to say something. But he stopped. Neal handed over the wallet, glowering at Peter as he did.

Opening to the wallet Peter pulled out the ID to check who it belonged it.

"It's not like he needed to money, I mean look at his– "

Peter held up his hand, cutting Neal off. He took a deep breath.

"We are going to return this too," He held up the ID card to Neal, revealing the name "Jonathan Tracy, and you are going to hope that he doesn't press charges."

Neal rolled his eyes, "This is ridiculous! He was practically begging for – "

Peters hard eyes locked onto Neal's and Neal stopped. He continued to stare Neal down, but as his firm gaze turned to open. Neal looked away.

The two sat back down on the table. The silence pressed against them like humidity hanging in the air. It felt strange after their easy conversation before. Neal felt something heavy rising in the pit of his stomach. Was this… was this _guilt?_ No. It was just some pick-pocking. Not like it was a big deal or anything. Then why did he feel – Neal stopped himself. He did not want to think about this.

"Why did you do it, Neal?" Peter asked.

Neal looked at Peter. He considered crafting a perfect reply, but something told him Peter wasn't going to by it.

Neal shrugged.

Peter waited, unconvinced with the non-committal response.

Neal put his elbows on the table, folding his arms in front of him.

"I don't like being in your debt, okay?" Neal blurted, with more fire than intended.

If Peter was taken aback by Neal's honest reply he didn't show it.

"What about Caleb Tracy. Aren't you now indebted to him?" Peter asked.

"That different."

"No. It's not."

"Yes. It is."

"Okay, then enlighten me."

Neal pulled back. "Are you going to report me?"

Stealing. Crime. Go directly to jail. Go not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

"I don't know." Peter replied.

* * *

"I don't know why I'm so disappointed El. I mean, he's a criminal. I saw this coming from a mile away."

El looked up from her book, turning to listen to her husband.

"We returned the wallet. Jonathan was kind enough not to press charges. I think he was just glad to have it back." Peter sighed, "I guess it's just Neal's nature."

"You don't believe that," El responded. "Of course, he didn't change instantly, no one does. Honey, it takes time. Of course, you're disappointed. You're relying on him, trusting him."

"It's foolish," Peter replied.

"Maybe." El smiled. "But it's why I love you."

* * *

Neal paced silently his room. Five minutes till midnight. Peter and El must be asleep by now. He slowly opened the guest bedroom door and glanced down the hall. Yes, their bedroom door was closed and no light came from underneath it. He turned to walk slowly down the stairs. Neal crept on the balls of his feet, unwilling to let any small sound give him away.

He relaxed as he reached the lower level of the house, convinced that his small sounds wouldn't be sufficient to wake the Burkes. The last thing he wanted was Peter catching him breaking the rules – again. Anger flared in Neal's stomach. _Peter thinks he can tell me what to do_. Neal thought. _Who does he think he is? He's not my father. What's it to him?_

Neal reached out and took Peter's landline phone and dialled the number he'd memorised.

"Neal, 12 o'clock on the dot. Punctual as always I see." Neal smiled at the sound of Mozzie voice. His long-time friend had a way of making him feel at home.

"Hey Moz." Neal greeted. "What did you find out about Keller? Is he still looking for me?"

"Uh, about that. I ran into your little friend earlier today."

"What?" Neal said, fighting to keep his voice down.

"It's okay," Mozzie reassured, sensing Neal's panic. "I'm okay. It's not as bad as you think. He had a message for you."

Neal paused. "A message?" he asked.

"Well, a job actually," Mozzie said. "When you were caught, you had the necklace on your person. The FBI now have it in evidence lock-up. Keller wants it back."

Neal laughed. "He wants me to steal it back, _from the FBI."_

"Well, you always did like a challenging heist," Mozzie interjected.

Neal paused, running his mind over the pros and cons. "You think I should do it?" He asked.

"Yes."

"You warned me _against_ working with him."

"I'd say it's a little late for that at this point." Mozzie added, "It's the same pay cut as the original heist. It's a good job, Neal. We'll work it together. I've missed working with you. Things have been boring out here without your escapades to brighten the night."

Neal smiled at that. He did miss the thrill of a case, working with Mozzie.

"And," Mozzie added, "he didn't seem to be asking."

"Okay," Neal said. "I'm in."

As Neal and Mozzie talked logistics of the heist Neal began to feel that same creeping guilt in his stomach. He pushed the unfamiliar emotion aside. What did he care about Peter? He's just a Fed. It doesn't matter want he thinks.

 _It doesn't matter,_ Neal lied.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi everyone! I know, I know, the time between these updates seems to grow and grow. I'm sorry for that if any of you are waiting for this story (if that's the case it makes my life!). Unfortunately tho, I do have a life - specifically one at university which keeps me very busy. So though I am sorry, my current priorities don't particularly lie ( _see what I did there?_ ) with pumping out this fic. So you will receive this story in drips and drabs. Bear with! The chapters will come! ANYWAY - I really do hope you enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter 6**

* * *

The FBI office was in constant movement. At first glance, it seems like an overwhelming mess of people. But overtime Neal began to discern reason amongst the madness. He mentally named each group, noting the standing of every agent.

There were three main ones. 'Underlings' buzzed from desks to coffee machines, arms full of papers and steaming cups. Eager eyes and busy feet. They didn't have desks of their own so they moved freely though the mess. They were the worker bees. They switched their jobs at a whim, often balancing many at once. This contrasted with the 'Workers'. These agents where less youthful. They were not interns with hopeful eyes and dreams of changing the world. They moved through the office purposefully, part of a finely tuned machine. Circling occasionally, they always returned to their desks. The 'Workers' left and returned at their own bidding, a luxury the 'Underlings' did not have. Finally, there was the 'Overlords'. Named for their offices which are located overlooking the open-plan mess below, well, and for Neal's tendency towards the dramatic. These were the people with real power. They ran the show.

Neal smiled at one of the "Underlings" named Lee. Lee smiled back. He seemed more relaxed than his co-workers. Perhaps Neal could squeeze some information from him – like the location of evidence lock up.

Peter walked by Neal's desk.

"Anything yet?" he questioned, pulling Neal from his reverie.

"No, not yet." Neal sighed, his mind switching track from his current con to his current case.

The agent was still looking at him, waiting.

"I keep going over it, the house's security, the interviews of White, the pictures and analysis of the paintings stolen, the style of the art. It doesn't offer any hints as to who did this." Neal swivelled in his chair, his voice growing in volume as he spoke. "Then there's the question of the illegitimacy of White's art collection. Where did he get his collection from? Did he know any of it was fake? There are too many unknown variables."

Something tugged at Neal memory as he flicked through the files. He couldn't place it.

A smile flickered over Peter's face. He paused, considering. "Is it not in the interview transcripts?" Peter asked.

Neal shook his head.

"Well, why don't we go ask him?" Peter asked.

"What?" Caffrey.

"White," Peter replied. "Why don't we interview him?"

Neal smiled. "I thought you already did that," he pointed out.

"We did, but I'm sure he won't mind if we pop round again to ask a few more questions. It is his paintings we are attempting track after all."

Neal jumped from his chair, eager to get out of the office and followed Peter out the door. They two were accompanied by almost jealous looks from a few of the 'underlings'. Apparently interviewing a witness was something they had yet to do. Neal noted their faces, crossing them off the list targets for his con. For this to work, he needed someone sympathetic, not envious.

* * *

Mr White's house was a half hour drive from the precinct. An elegant 19th-century mansion, it rose proudly, confident in its rightful place. People came and went, but this building remained standing. Peter and Neal were ushered inside by a maid and quickly lead through a series of corridors to a decorative room and asked, kindly, to wait. Tall bookshelves bordered the back wall, while the room covered with large paintings. Peter took a seat in one of the chairs situated near the centre of the room.

Neal wandered the around the walls, eyes flicking over the various volumes and tomes. Towering oak bookshelves reached to the ceiling. A smile flashed across his face as he came across a book he was familiar with.

Neal continued to walk around the room. The paintings were decorated with intricate golden frames. Filled with cavernous, dark colours, the art seemed to sink into the walls. Burying itself deep within the building.

"Only look. No touching," Peter warned, as he watched Neal from the corner of his eye.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Neal replied absently. He was busy analysing a rather gruesome painting that he was surprisingly unfamiliar with. It depicted a man standing on a battle field, slain soldiers beneath his feet. Their expressions were painted in painful accuracy. Shivering, Neal moved on.

Neal was just admiring the exquisite brushwork on one of the paintings when he was interrupted by footsteps. The door open as Mr White waltzed in.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," he smiled a smile that was anything but apologetic.

Mr White's smile was what one would call a defining feature. A rather friendly feature that would be an asset if his white teeth weren't quite so disconcerting. They glared an unnatural light. Threateningly large, they seemed to be preparing to snap, to bite.

"I'm afraid I got caught up in with some business. You're with the FBI?"

"Agent Peter Burke," Peter replied, shaking White's hand in greeting.

"And this is my associate Neal -."

"-Caffrey," Neal interrupted. The 'associate' stepped forward and confidently shook White's hand. The young con flashed a smile to rival White's own.

As Peter and White began the pleasantries of conversation something began to tug on Neal's mind. He found his eyes pulled back to the gruesome heroic painting he saw before.

"This is quite the art collection you have here Mr White," Neal stated.

"Well thank you," White smiled. "I've spent most of my life building it. I'm quiet the art lover. Even dabbled a little myself."

"You paint?" Neal asked.

"Oh yes!" White grinned, clearly pleased to discuss his artistic talents.

ConArtist101: People like to talk about themselves, give them an opening to do so and you never know what sort of useful information will come spilling out.

"Yes, a couple of these paintings displayed in this very room are mine, if from my earlier more youthful years. Like that renaissance imitation over there," White gestured towards the very same gruesome painting that had court Neal's eye. "I painted that in my early twenties."

Telling information indeed.

"The craftsmanship is stunning!" Neal complemented.

"You do many paintings?" he pushed on, causally eyeing White's mannerisms and expressions.

"It's more of a hobby than anything," White replied, "Oh! I'm a terrible host, I've offered you no refreshments. Mary? Yes, could kindly bring in a tray of drinks and snacks? Thank you."

Peter had been watching the interaction between his young charge and his witness with growing interest. At first, when the conversation verged off track, he thought to intervene. But Neal's words were to purposeful, his posture to posed, his interest to genuine. In the few weeks that they had been together, Peter had begun to spot when Neal was putting on a show. There was a purpose to this line of questioning.

If there was anything else Peter learned the past few weeks living with a closed off, talkative, con artist; it's how to spot a redirect, and White's one was staring him in the face.

"I'm fine. Thank you," Peter commented waving away food. He stepped up to analyse the painting White had gestured too.

 _There was one thing they hadn't yet considered._

"This is fantastic! My hobby is baseball. I don't know all that much about art but this could be your profession. Ever sell any art?" Peter asked.

 _It's so simple._

He caught Neal's eye and saw realisation dawn on him. In a second it was gone, replaced by his casual smile and eye's scanning the painting before him.

 _So obvious._

"A pipe dream, really. I'm just a collector. My life has always been in my business. I do hope you recover my paintings, with the amount of tax I pay this country I would expect faster results."

 _So ridiculously unlikely._

Could there be two art forgers in that room?

* * *

 **THANK YOU FOR READING! Let me know what you'll think! Reviews are AMAZING (and super motivating) so if you enjoyed this drop me a line. I'm** **also open to critical feedback as I am always looking to improve my writing. Hope your having a wonderful day! Xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey Anyone Who Stuck Around For This Oh My Goodness You Patient People I Love You All! Lol, I said I wouldn't write during the semester cus it takes up my time and I do this when I have 2 assessments due! Procastinationnnnnnn. I had fun though! So I hope you enjoy, it super cheesy (as always) with a little angst a little fluff - but lots more of those to come in later chapters.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

Peter and Neal walked through the corridors towards the main exit of the house. With White out of hearing range, Neal leant towards to Peter.

"I think our host may have a resume very similar to my own", Neal whispered.

Peter shot Neal a stern look, demanding silence on the matter. But the glint of excitement that flashed over his face took the weight out of the expression.

Peter was as intrigued by this development as Neal was.

The two rounded the corner, about to exit as a girl, entered the room.

Neal suddenly stopped walking.

The cons faced morphed into something resembling panic before quickly reshuffling itself into the hardened, expressionless persona that Peter had come to recognise as a mask. The glimpse of Neal's shifting expression left a worried impression on Peter.

With a pang of concern he followed Neal's fixed eye-line to girl who just entered the room. She had dark hair and pale skin. Everything about her appeared relatively unremarkable. Peter looked on in confusion as Neal's intense gaze with the girl broke and the con continued to walk as if the exchange had never occurred.

Burke started after Neal. He turned to talk to the young women but found she has exited the way she had come. The agent quickened his step to catch up with Neal as he followed him out of the house. He said his thanks to White and rushed after his young charge.

Neal was leading, causally, against the FBI car.

"Who was that?" Peter asked, pointed as always.

"Who?" Neal replied, posture open and innocent. Peter had known Neal too long to be fooled by his outward appearance. Neal stood stiffly, about the only thing in movement was his eyes. They flickered between the building and the road, clearly uncomfortable with the situation they were in. He wanted to leave. Now.

Peter's eyes narrowed, but the panic that has flashed though over Neal's face was fresh in his memory. He was inclined to obligate Neal's unspoken request and get the heck out of there.

The two got into the car and Agent Burke started the engine.

Neal quipped about Peter never letting him drive. Peter said something about forged licenses not being considered kosher by the FBI, or any other government agency in the history of ever.

Burke glanced at Neal. He was casually humming as he looked out the window. No resemblance of the unsettling encounter remained. _Could he have imagined it? No._ Peter was getting old, but not that old. His wit was still intact. Glancing at Neal he briefly considered letting it slide, but then he remembered the wallet incident. If there was something going on with this kid - he needed to know.

"Who was that girl back at White's house?" Peter, again, ventured into the twisted game that is trying to extract an answer from Neal Caffrey.

"What girl?" Neal replied, absently as he continued to stare out the window.

"The one in the hallway" Peter replied.

"How would I know?" Neal shrugged.

Peter rolled his eyes. Sometimes he forgot, that despite everything else, Neal Caffrey was still a teenager.

"It seemed like you knew her."

"Did it?" Neal asked.

Peter resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. Sometimes Neal's tendency to answer questions with yet more questions drove him insane.

He didn't trust Neal, not yet. But he didn't know how he was going to find out what he needed to know if the kid kept dancing conversational circles around him. It struck him, as Peter glanced at the kid, that maybe Neal didn't trust him yet either. Of course Neal wouldn't talk to him. The kid spent half his life running from the FEDs. Maybe Peter's direct, pragmatic approach wouldn't work so well in this case. Maybe to elicited trust, he would have to give some of his own.

This time Peter really did sigh. Elizabeth was so much better at thing kind of thing. He looked towards Neal and let concern bleed through his voice.

"Are you okay?"

Neal looked across in surprise. He paused, his intense gaze on Peter as he studied his face.

"Yeah," he answered sincerely and with a slight smile. "I'm good."

Peter nodded and refocused on driving. Answers could come later, for now, good would do.

* * *

"Wait a second. So you're saying you think that Mr White reported his _own_ forgery paintings stolen?" Diana asked, sceptically.

"That's the current theory," Neal leant against the hallway rail, hands folded.

"But wouldn't it risk him being found out?"

"It's likely he knew he was going to get caught," Peter answered, fingers tapping on hand rail as he talked. "If Neal could recognise his art as forgeries then others could too. Instead of risking selling the paintings, he destroyed them." Peter smirked. "I bet that resulted in a hell of an insurgence claim."

"So how are we gonna catch him?"

Neal peeled away from the conversation as he realised his input wasn't necessary. Catching criminals was Burke's domain, not his. His thoughts instantly shot back to the hallway girl. He knew her. He knew her well. She was Hannah: Keller's daughter.

Hannah had appeared out of know where in a ghost-like. Waiting, following – that's what Hannah's good at. Her hair was loose, unlike her once open expression which had tightened into one of stone. Any residue of emotion she had felt towards Neal in the past, dissipated. Neal's heart tightened at the memory. Her cold eyes had locked onto his and he had fought the urge to look behind him, to check he was safe. He had grown too used to feeling safe. Safe in this home. Safe in this job. It had thrown him off his game. It made him weak.

Keller knew where he was. He knew what case he was working on, who Peter was. Hannah didn't have to say anything for the message to be communicated loud and clear; remember who you really work for.

Damn.

Despite jail and tracking anklet's, restrictions on freedom and bloody paper work – Neal was having fun.

He was… happy.

He never thought that two parents and an exciting job would have that effect on him. _They're not your family._ He reminded himself. _And it's not a job, it's your prison sentence, remember. You're trapped here._ So why, for the first time in his life, did he feel free?

A hand on his shoulder brought Neal back to the present.

"Good work kid," Peter smiled before he walked into his office.

Neal smiled back. He wondered what Peter would think when he realised he was plotting to steal from the FBI behind his back.

Neal fortified himself. _This isn't your life._

Looking out through the glass Neal saw the 'underling' Lee walk towards the coffee machine. Now's as good a time as any.

The young con walked down the stairs, picking up a couple empty mugs as he went. Glancing up at the offices he saw that Peter was engrossed in paperwork. Sometimes these glass walls worked in your favour. The coffee machine was in a breakroom - one of the only fully walled, doored good old fashioned private rooms in the FBI quarters, besides the bathroom that is.

Neal lingered outside the coffee-room door, listening to Lee's footsteps. As he heard them nearing the door Neal shifted the empty mugs into his left hand, leaving his right hand free. He opened the door, walked forward and – straight into Lee.

A collision ensued.

Lee's mug flew from his hands and was caught, by the prepared free hand of Caffrey. Hot coffee splattered over Neal's shirt.

"Oh my goodness I'm so sorry!" Spluttered Lee as Neal sharply inhaled. The just boiled drink stung his skin.

Neal let out of grunt of pain. Which was far too easy to fake; good cons are close to the truth.

"Are you okay? Oh no, umm, let me help you with that," Lee offered, pulling Neal towards the sink. He reached for a cold, damp cloth and placed it over Neal's chest.

"Thank you," Neal smiled gratefully. He let out a breath, "I'm okay."

"I'm sorry! I didn't see you coming," Lee explained.

Neal waved a dismissive hand through the air, "I didn't see you either. Could've happened to any of us. I'm fine, really."

Lee breathed a sigh of relief.

Neal held up the empty mug's he picked on the way down. "Coffee duty too?" he asked.

Lee smiled, "You'd think after a year working here you'd think I've have some more interest jobs."

A smile cracked over Neal's face, "tell that to the stack of files in Agent Burke's office that he pushes on to me. The only more boring thing they could have me doing is filing evidence."

"Evidence duty isn't all that bad, at least you'd be doing something productive."

Neal switched on the coffee machine, "Did they have you stationed all the way out there?"

"You mean the official lock up? Naa, I worked basement evidence."

"I didn't know there was one," Neal tagged on the end, hoping for a lead.

"Yeah, it's just for this precincts cases so it's not that big. But we work white collar so every now and then something interesting will crop up. Man, you wouldn't believe the stuff they have down there."

Neal grinned, "Try me."

* * *

 **Thank You for reading this! It makes me so happy that there are some people who actually like this xxx so THANKS!** **TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT - reviews are my sun and stars**


	8. Chapter 8

**I everyone! I'm back with a new chapter and in record time - well record time for me anyhow. I hope all you lovely people are doing well. Thank you so much to all those who reviewed, your kind words make my day :D Also thanks to anyone who just reads my stuff. I'm super happy you guys want to read what I write. This chapter contains a little more fluff than usual, but don't worry the angst at the end evens it out haha. I wouldn't just deliver you'll happy vibes - what kind of writer would I be then? Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

There is something tranquil about Sunday mornings. The kind where the work for the week is done. The warm sun sinks into the earth, embracing the world with a deep, peaceful glow. The Sunday Times is dropped on doorsteps. Toasters pop, kettles boil, birds gossip as they balance on power lines. The city deflates.

Peter and Elizabeth sat together at their breakfast table. According to both of them, this is an activity that occurs all too rarely. Planets align before the married couple manage to align their busy schedules for a sit-down breakfast.

"Pancakes," Elizabeth hummed, slipping her arm around her husband.

Peter shot her a grin, "My speciality." He flips the pancake. Or rather, attempts a flip which results in a pancake half squashed over itself.

He frowned, "it worked last time."

A laugh bubbles out of Elizabeth's mouth and tugs a smile on Peter's lips. Elizabeth is beautiful when she laughs, wrinkles gather at the corner of her eyes and dimples dip in her cheeks. After fifteen years of marriage, with ups and downs and everything in-between, the two loved each other. A choice they continue to follow every day.

Peter glanced at the clock which just ticked over 10:15 am. "Neal's usually up by now," he states. "If he doesn't come soon he's going to miss breakfast."

Another unusual occurrence. Neal was often up early, moving around the house with a stealth that conjured both worry and, not that he would admit, admiration in Peter.

"I'll take over," Elizabeth smiled. "You should go wake him."

"What about the pancakes?"

Elizabeth reached under Peter's arms, turned down the stove temperature which was burning pancake with spots of black and fizzles of smoke.

"I think there better under my care," she replied with a smirk.

Peter's hand covered his heart, spatula still in tow. His mouth widened with mock anguish. "Is that an insult to my cooking?"

Elizabeth wrestled the spatula from his hand.

"I would never," her mischievous grin indicated the opposite.

Hands up in surrender, Peter retreated to the stairwell.

A couple of photos lined the walls in the Burke family household. Many from a younger time. Snapshots of extended family, graduations from college. A much younger and fuller haired Peter peered outwards, his arm hung around his at-that-time girlfriend El. The two had so many plans. But as life continued the photos on the wall stopped. With repetition, there was little they felt worthy of documentation. The empty wall space which would have been filled with photos was taken up paintings picked out by El. They were beautiful, but Peter didn't mind either way. They were better than the grey space of empty walls.

"Neal," he knocked on the kid's door. There was no answer. Peter waited awkwardly outside, before knocking again. When a disgruntled teenager didn't present himself, Peter pushed the door open slowly.

"Breakfast is ready downstairs, where having –," Peter stopped.

The bed was empty. The agent's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he entered.

Neal was slumped at his desk, asleep. His hair uncharacteristically ruffled. His face was smudged with charcoal that hung loosely in his hand. Drawings covered the table. There was no pretence or intention to Neal's posture. He looked young, peaceful. Neal spent exerted so much energy acting professional, powerful, it was strange to see him so open.

As Peter approached he saw the desk was covered with sketches. Beautifully detailed pictures of FBI offices, the park down the road, Satchmo playing out the window. The marks were free and fast. They indicated not a just a still place, but also time, a sense of depth and rhythm that a 2D world usually lacks. Life flourished in those drawings.

Peter slide some sketches aside revealing more. There was one of a short bumbling man, playing chess with a glint in his eye. He seemed familiar, funny, and a little odd. There was an alleyway, with charcoal black shadows that sunk into the desk. Sketches of blank walls and shadowed figures. A closeup of a smile, too wide, too fake, drunk with menace. The image caused a shiver to run down Peter's spine.

"Neal," Peter placed a hand on Neal's shoulder. The kid flinched awake, almost twisting out of the chair.

"Woah hey!" Peter held his hands and stepped back.

Neal's unfocused eyes snapped to Peter and he seemed to regain control over himself. He rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair.

Neal took in a fortifying breath before he relaxed back into his chair.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked.

"You scared me," Neal offered in reply. It was more of a justification than an answer.

"Well," Peter ventured, "breakfast is downstairs, where having pancakes. So just head down when you're ready."

Neal nodded.

Those pictures were beautiful. Peter knew Neal could paint and draw exceptionally well. He had to, to pull of the forgeries he did. But _this_ was a whole other level. There was such depth. It felt close, personal. Emotion soaked through the pages. It was surprising considering how little emotion made it past Neal's mental border security. But some of those pictures, there was an unease to them. Those walls, that smile. Thinking back, the only time Peter had seen Neal's wall break was when he was afraid.

Afraid he was being sent back to jail. Afraid of the face in the hallway. So afraid, this morning, that he almost toppled from his chair. For all the confidence he showed the world, the kid was living in fear.

Peter paused at the door.

"Those are amazing," his hands gestured towards the drawings on the desk.

"There just practice sketches."

"No, seriously," Peter continued, "there beautiful! I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like them."

"You think so?" A small smile grew on Neal's face.

"Defiantly! El would love to see these! I've never been particularly arty but she has an eye for these kinds of things. She did a gallery event a little while back, says it was her best one yet. You could do this seriously."

"I already do," Neal realised his mistake. " _Did_. Past tense."

"You know I don't mean forgeries. You could do your own original work. Become one of those artists you admire so much."

Neal's face flushed. "I don't know."

"Why not?"

"It's not the same. I mean, recreating art is one thing but this stuff," Neal looked back at the drawing on the desk. "There personal. There mine."

He swallowed the last word as if deciding he had said too much.

That didn't make all that much sense to Peter but he let the subject drop. He wouldn't push Neal. Not on this. Not yet.

The morning that followed was relaxed. The three walked Satchmo to the park. Both Peter and El left their phones, and consequently work, at home. Neal dropped the idea of visiting the gallery of Elizabeth's event into the conversation and El immediately made it her crusade to drag Peter along. The three wandered the halls, El finally with someone who would enjoy it as much, if not far more than she did. Peter kept the two in check.

"Not that way, kid." He chided as Neal went to show El an entrance to the basement artworks. Peter avoided the question of _why_ Neal new all the ins and outs of the art gallery, he could already guess the answer.

Peter couldn't remember the last time he took a full day off and spent it with his family. No mention of FBI or Event Management throughout the whole day. It was liberating, rejuvenating. _Had I really become such a workaholic?_ Peter wondered. The smile that was a fixture on his face a testament to the day he had.

The ceiling of Neal's bedroom had a mark to the left the window, just above Neal's bed. He had been staring at it for the last five minutes. If you squinted your eyes it looked a little like a star, far away in the sky. The kind that one would find in the edges of the city where the blanket of smog pulled back to reveal the smallest corner of the heavens.

A smile readily waited behind Neal's mouth. Not the smile the Neal wore as a mask, carefully manufactured, regularly practised. That smile was one of conjured confidence. This new smile was different. It was crooked, clumsy, and difficult swallow. It just kept fizzing below the surface, itching the corners of his face, begging to be let free. It was impatient and eager. For what? Neal was unsure. He didn't want to consider it. He didn't want to think because he knew that with thinking, whatever this feeling was, it would erode to nothing. Despite his best efforts the thoughts still came.

 _This is not going to last._

 _You're not worth this. You know it. Everyone knows it. It won't be long before the Burkes work it out too._

 _End it now._

 _Get out._

 _Leave._

The phone under his mattress buzzed. It vibrated the whole bed. He lifted it when Peter wasn't looking and only one person knew the number.

"Mozzie."

"Neal, you _are_ alive! I was beginning to think you had fallen off the edge of the earth. Which, by the way, you could have. Decades of systematic suppression of knowledge that the earth is actually flat not ro-,"

"Mozzie!" Neal cut in, "not today."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

"Your voice sounds-,"

"I said I'm fine Mozzie. Just not in the mood for one of your conspiracy theories."

There was silence on the other end of the line as Mozzie digested this information. He tried to decide if his worry for his young friend outweighed the hurt he felt at that remark. He decided that it did.

"Have you got the intel?" Mozzie asked. He never pried into the kid's business. If Neal insisted on being fine, who was Mozzie to contradict? But he could meet his long-time friend on the turf that their friendship was built on, in the diversion that they both shared: the con.

"Yeah, the basics," Neal relayed the information to his partner. "I still need to do more surveillance, work out what time is best, who's going be there."

"I think we should push forward and go ahead this week."

"What? No. We're not prepared. I haven't even got an exit plan yet."

"That what you have me for; I'm the best in the game." Neal could just imagine the proud twinkle in Mozzies eye as he said those word. "Give me a few days. I haven't been twiddling my thumbs while you play with the big boys. I've been working. I got my hands on the building blueprints, with you on the inside and these in my hands, well, let's just say this con is going to work out easier than expected."

"I don't know Moz. I think we should wait, make sure it's safe."

"Neal." Even through the brick phone Mozzie's voice came through clear and firm.

"I don't know what's going on over there but this isn't you. The suits have you brainwashed. You're not some puppet for them. Why would you want to stay there longer than you need too?"

"There not so bad Moz."

"Not so bad! Neal! They are Sauron to Frodo. They are Voldemort to muggles. They are the US government to Snowden – _literally_! They exist to encroach on our freedoms and control th-"

"Moz."

"Yeah, yeah. Not in the mood for my 'conspiracy theories', even if they're true, I get it. But that's exactly what I mean Neal! I'm worried about you. You're not yourself."

"Maybe that's a good thing."

"No, no it's not. You don't belong there, Neal."

Neal glanced back towards the mark near the window. _Mozzie was right. Who was he kidding?_ _He didn't belong here in this room. Or with Peter and El, or the FBI. How could he?_

"Yeah, I know," Neal replied.

"You belong out here, with me!" Mozzie continued his speech. "This is what you were born to do Neal. It's what people like you and me live for."

When Neal didn't reply Mozzie knew he had him.

"When's the best time to strike?" Mozzie asked.

"Thursday night. 10 pm, Alexandra's on and she falls asleep around 9 – can hardly keep his eyes open."

"Add it to your calendar. After the heist, you'll be a free man again. I was thinking we could go to Venice in celebration. I know of a rich art collector there who has an extensive collection."

Neal laughed, "Won't be very extensive after your visit."

" _Our_ visit, Neal. We're a team - you and me. Look, I've got to go. Just stick to plan and everything will be fine. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead. Neal fell back towards the bed, his eyes again pinned on the ceiling. _Stick to the plan and everything will be fine._ He repeated in his head. _Everything will be fine._

* * *

 **That's it for today :) Reviews are on par with puppies and chocolate (yes that is a very high bar to meet) so tell me what you think! Have an awesome day :D BYE**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi everyone! Yes, I have re-emerged from the depths of time and I have with me a new chapter. Not a whole lot of action in this one, but a massive amount of emotional tension** **. I hope I didn't throw it all out too fast. Anyway, I've been waiting for this scene for a while so I hope ya like it :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

* * *

When Neal met Peter's eyes at the kitchen table he felt a sinking pit in his stomach. _There was that damn feeling again. Why they hell couldn't he just let it go? Why did he allow himself to get to the point where he started to care again?_

"Sleep well last night?" El smiled as she slid a coffee towards Neal.

"Of course," came the lie.

The old lies with the same smile of conjured confidence.

"Well, I'm off," El said as kissed Peter and waved goodbye.

Neal waited for the stone in his stomach to stop sinking, but it kept descending as if there was nothing in Neal but an enteral void. Perhaps there was. Maybe all that is in Neal is deep nothingness. It sure felt like it. _Most of this universe is nothing_ , Neal reasoned _. There is more space between our cells than anything else. We are empty. More no one than someone. Perpetual nothing, on the most microscopic level, keeps anyone from ever touching. Nothingness, separated by yet more nothingness._ The concept used to be comforting. Yet with those thoughts came a bout of sickness.

What will happen to Peter if Neal ran? Peter _did_ vouch for Neal. _Peter vouched for me._ The words felt strange floating through Neal's head. He didn't have a place to put them. Neal had expertise, but so did others. Caffrey was not arrogant enough to believe himself the be-all and end-all of art crime. 'James Bond' he may be, but human he was also. If an art and crime expert was all Peter wanted, it would make so much more sense to hire a trained expert. Not a self-taught teenage criminal. A dangerous thought flickered around the fringes of Neal's mind; Peter cared.

"You ready?" Peter asked, picking up his computer bag.

Neal nodded. He glanced at Peter and quickly swept the thought away. It was stupid, unprofessional. A childish hope. As the con gathered his things, he set his mind back towards Mozzie and Venice. The life he'd lived and loved. _Hotel rooms and the bubbling excitement of planning a heist_. _Playing chess with Moz. The sensation of being lost in a forgery. Paint on his clothes, hands, smeared over his face._ But with those thoughts came the rest of the memories _. Always looking over your shoulder. Cold nights on the run. Always moving. Distance. Dark corners. Dark dreams._

Peter shot a glance at Neal, "You all right?" He asked.

Neal's face instinctively schooled into an easy, expression, complete with a blinding grin, "Yeah, you?"

"I'm good," Peter paused. He looked towards Neal, "But you're not. You haven't been all morning."

Neal's face registered a flicker of surprise.

"It may have taken me a while," Peter continued, "but I can tell when you're lying."

Neal scoffed, "Really? How?"

"It's your smile."

"My smile's perfect!"

"Exactly."

Neal's eyebrows creased, "I don't…"

"When you smile, actually smile, when you're genuinely happy, it's lopsided."

Neal coughed, "It's so not."

"And _,"_ Peter continued, disregarding the interruption, "it's smaller. You try to swallow it. So it doesn't sit on your face for as long."

"How observant, Dr Watson." Neal deadpanned, though the smile Peter described was beginning to slip over the corners of his face.

"There!" Peter laughed, "that's a real Caffrey smile."

Neal's face quickly morphed into a scowl, though it held little weight as his eyes were still light.

"When you lie, your expression is perfect, like a stock photo model. Your grin is even and your back straight. You're good Neal, really good. You would have to know what you normally look like, messy teenager and all, to notice the difference."

"Damn! Now how can I steal anything now?" Neal teased, "One look at my poker face and you'll have me down."

"So, you still haven't answered the question," Peter pressed.

The lightness in Neal's eyes faded, "What question?"

"Neal," Peter asked, "what's going on?"

"Well, obviously I'm about to head into the FBI for my daily dose of child labour –"

"Neal." Peter's voice was serious but kind. "I want you to know that you can talk to me."

Neal rolled his eyes, "I do talk to you."

Peter laughed, "I'm not sure you ever really talk to anyone, kid."

Neal shifted in my seat, "what would you know?" The words were quiet, muffled. Peter heard them anyway.

"You're right," he conceded. "I don't know. There's only so much I can infer from your range of smiles. I just," Peter ran a hand though his hair. "I just want you to know that if you're ever willing to open up and talk. I'm here."

Neal stared, he leant back against the wall behind him.

Peter shifted his weight.

"I care about you, kid."

There it was. That sentence which contained so much hope and so much fear. The words fell clumsily in the space between the two men. Neal tensed.

"Me and El both. I just… worry about you."

"I can look after myself."

"I know you can kid, it's just-"

Neil bristled the word ' _kid'_. His hard glare fixed on Peter.

"I'm not a kid." He snapped. The words fell heavily, each one hitting the floor with a thud. Frustration clouded Neil's face, he made no effort to push it away. He was angry. Peter could see the emotion etched in his expression. He _wanted_ Peter to notice. He wanted his emotions to be known. His real emotions, not just the facade he conjured for a con.

Peter looked at Neal in surprise.

This was not 'normal' Caffrey behaviour. _Normally_ Neal wouldn't fight or glare. He learned long ago that its far easier to embrace the labels people assign to you, to twist them to your advantage. It's so much easier, for everyone, if you just pretend. But it wasn't as easy as it once was.

Neal Caffrey had lived a very different life before he met Peter and El. It wasn't a particularly bad life. Or at least Neal never thought so. It was fine. He was fine. So, what he didn't have a family? He had Moz. Yes, he had to fend for himself. But so do millions of others. It's just life. You play the hand you're dealt. Cashing in on that hand sent Neal down a spiral of art forgery, cons and crime. But at least then he could be someone else. At least he could hide himself.

It's easy to hide in yourself if no one cares. Here Peter was, saying that he cared. That El cared. Neal hated to admit it, but the most infuriating fact was that Neal Caffrey cared. He cared so damn much. He cared so much it feels like his body would tear in two. He shouldn't feel like this. It's stupid. It's irrational. Neal was done with the rational. Dancing as if every word, every action, every expression was a move to gain power. Neal Caffrey was done pretending.

Peter opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could the floodgates opened.

"I am not a kid! I'm not stupid or innocent. And I don't need you! I don't need anybody. I'm fine by myself. I've been living on my own for four bloody years and I've never needed a soul."

Peter stepped back, unsure of when he had lost control of the conversation.

Neal threw his hands in the air, "I'm sick of you treating me like I'm someone who needs help. You have me here to help you, remember! If you don't need me for your cases then go ahead and send me back to prison, where at least there I'd be free of you looking over my shoulder all time."

Neal gaze fixed on Peter. The fire in his eyes spluttered when he saw the confused and hurt expression flash over Peter's face. But his anger ignited again when Peter's expression shifted to one of compassion.

He didn't need compassion. He didn't want pity.

"Don't you dare look at me like that! I am not some kicked dog. I'm not a kid. I don't need this." Even to his own ears Neal's plight sounded childish, but he was too angry to care.

"Do you want to know why I agreed to work for the FBI?" Neal drew his verbal knife, intending to slash Peter away. "It was to get away from Keller. It had nothing to do with this job, or going straight, or you! I was only ever going to stay till I could get away. I did _not_ sign up for this."

Peter just stood there. He leant back against the kitchen counter behind him. His gaze locked firmly onto Neal's.

Peter's mind ticked over Neal's words, trying to figure out the 'this'Neal did not sign up for. More than anything it sounded like Neal was fighting against himself.

Peter choose his words carefully.

"I did," he said.

"What?"

"I signed up for this." Peter said. "I didn't just hire you because you good at what you do Neal. I hired you because I know that under your act of Bravo, the mask you put between yourself and the world, you're a good person. I know you think you don't need me. I know you say you need no one. But I need you. Neal, El and I, we need you in our lives. We want you in our life."

Neal's eyes were firmly pinned on Peter.

"Whatever your reasons for coming, they don't matter. That's in the past. Your still here. What matters is who you are now." Peter stepped closer to Neal and place his hands on the kid's shoulders.

"Neal," the words cut, "no matter what you think, you are a good person. I believe you are."

Neal pulled out of Peters hold. "I'm not," he mumbled.

"Neal, yes you are, you just need to-"

"No! I'm not!" Neal's gaze hit Peter. "I'm not who you think I am. If I was a good person, I wouldn't have to hide or lie. I wouldn't feel the rush I feel when taking something that's not mine, what it that? That's not 'good'. And I certainly wouldn't be planning to rob the FBI."

Peter Burke stopped.

The words sunk to the bottom of the room and seeped through the floorboards.

Neal's eyes widened as he realised had just escaped his mouth. His throat began to constrict. That it. That's what all this guilt lead to. Peter knows.

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 **Opps! There it is. What do you guys think? Let me know! :D Reviews are life**


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